Sunday, January 27, 2013


First I never noticed
the cracks in the wall--
the coffee stained furniture,
the holes in my clothes.
I waited instead
listening for the ring of your keys,
watching for your leather jacket,
waiting to smell your hair.
Emptiness never startled me--
I was full of it in the ache
you chose for a halo
the way a street is full of rain.

Then something happened--
maybe I drew a circle,
maybe a shadow got stuck
in the blinds-- and a bird,
swift and dark and frightened
by glass and walls, escaped.
Waiting became the taste of my tongue and
the corners blind with dust.
My flesh could not contain
all these sharp animals
the way a bulb
can not contain the light.

Now I see the wounds
that clutter our closets.
I smell the smoke
that floods this house.
These walls mark past
shadows and spiders,
clinging to the whispered
seasons of warmth and dark.
I am pierced by the wandering of
abundance and absence,
as if the new calendar has given up
the moon, and you are a language
lost to history.

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